42

THE ROAD STRETCHED on endlessly to the east. The windscreen was not fully flush with the chassis and cold air whipped through the gaps. Billy turned up the collar of his overcoat and tried to ignore how cold he was feeling. All he wanted was to get back to London. He did not want to stop. He sat bolt upright, his eyes fixed on the road. Occasionally, a row of flickering lights to his right or left revealed the locations of the towns and villages that he passed. He had been driving for half an hour when he saw the lights of another all-night café approaching. Half a dozen laden lorries had drawn up in a wide car park next to a filling station and, beyond them, advertised by a bright neon sign, was the café: WATSON’S.

He gave up. He needed a hot drink. He rolled the lorry between two others, jumped down from the cab and went inside.

“Shut the door, mate, it’s brass monkeys out there.”

Billy did as he was asked and looked around. The café was down at heel, redolent with the smell of sweaty bodies, an open coke fire, damp clothes that were drying in the warmth and the cheap fat they used to fry the eggs. Most of the floor was sanded, and stairs led up to a second storey where a bed in a dormitory could be had for a few pennies. A handful of drivers were gathered around a pin-table, gambling. Others sat around the open fire, one of them cutting up plug tobacco with the blackened blade of his knife. Billy went up to the counter, paid three ha’pence for a cup of tea and went over to the fire to get some warmth.

A woman had been observing the action at the pin-table. She came across and took the seat next to Billy. “Alright, handsome?”

Billy looked over at her. She was wearing patent-leather slippers with worn heels. Her cheap stockings had been darned one too many times. Too much make-up, cheap perfume that smelt sickly. He nodded in her direction.

She took a dog-end out of her pocket and lit it. “Where are you headed?”

“What you want? A ride?”

“Yeah. Can you give us one?”

“Where to?”

“London. Give a girl a lift?”

Billy thought about it. He didn’t have much truck with pushers but he could do with some company, help him keep his eyes open. “Go on then,” he told her. “Get your coat.”

Billy finished his tea and led the way back out to the lorry. The wind was up, slicing through his clothes like a knife. The girl was hardly dressed for the weather. Billy opened the cab for her, cranked the starting handle until the engine caught, then pulled himself up into the cab.

“Bloody freezing in here,” the girl said. Her imitation fur collar was turned up but it couldn’t have made much of a difference. She crouched forwards towards the engine, trying to keep warm, and opened her battered old handbag. She fumbled through it: old letters, a handful of change, a box of cheap powder. “What a bloody turn-up.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Can’t find my bleeding smokes.”

“Here.” Billy passed over his packet of Players.

“Got a match?”

Billy handed her his lighter and she thumbed flame, her sallow flour-coated cheeks hollowing as she drew hard on the fag. They roared through a sleepy market town. In the market square, across from the church, was a brightly lit café. It looked cosy.

“I’ve been in that bloody place all night,” she said. “Ended up spending half a crown on grub and tea. None of them lorry sheiks even staked me a cup, right mingy lot of bastards they were. None of them would give me a ride, neither. Never thought I was going to touch lucky, not until you came in. You can’t deny the Old Bill are right mustard about lorry girls these days but how many plod do you reckon are going to be out on this toby on a night like this?”

Billy stared resolutely ahead, hardly hearing her. His mind was racing.

“I’m just trying to get myself a bit of money together. Just a little––get my hair permed, just the ends, mind, that ought to do me nicely. You can get off alright if your hair looks nice under your hat. Riding in wagons you don’t need to take your hat off.” He didn’t pay her any heed. “You a London bloke, then?”

“Yes.”

“Which part?”

“Here and there.”

“I’m from the Angel. Originally, that is––on the road most of the time these days.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t say much, do you?”

“Not as much as you.”

“Right charmer, you are.”

“Got something on my mind.”

“Go on then––a problem shared’s a problem halved, or whatever it is they say.”

Billy tried to relax but it was no good. He needed to get it off his chest. “You ever been let down before?”

“How’d you mean?”

“By a friend. Someone you thought you knew. Not like a misunderstanding, more than that––someone really disappointing you.”

“I ain’t really got that many friends. My line of work––”

Billy wasn’t listening to her. He just wanted to talk and she was in the cab: she would have to do. “I’m pals with this bloke, right? Been chums for years, ever since we was nippers. Best mate, that’s what I always thought. He goes off to the war and I didn’t and when he comes back he’s got this new mucker, this bloke he met out there. Not my type, he ain’t––he’s been to University, thinks he’s a right clever sort, looks down at the likes of me like I’m the shit off the bottom of his shoe. Joseph don’t see it, though. This is my mate. He don’t see it at all. Thick as thieves, the two of them are. Living together now and all. I try and tell him something ain’t right but he ain’t listening. Next thing I know, this bloke’s been brought into our business.”

“What business is that, dear?”

“Doesn’t matter what business it is. You need certain––certain qualities––to be any good at what we do, and this bloke don’t have none of them. There was this time, a couple of weeks ago, my pal gets himself arrested and he’ll never go and say it but I know for sure that the only reason he got pinched is because of this bloody cowson he’s been dragging around with him. Bad luck, straight he is.” A private car rushed past without dimming its lights. “I don’t know why that cowson gets under my skin so much, but he does. I’ve been working hard for years to make a name for myself, carve out a reputation. My chum gets back and I seen my chance. I’m no mug, see––my mate’s going to be a big noise, a proper face, like his old man was before him, like his uncle is now. I know I’m not like him––I don’t have his brains, and I know I’ll never make as much of myself if I work alone. That’s why I’ve tried to work on our friendship, tried to make myself what you’d call indispensible. By rights, I should be his right-hand man––he’s known me for years, he knows he can trust me, it’s obvious, right? And then this Fabian comes along––bloody Fabian, his head up his bloody arse––and it all goes wrong. And I don’t know what to do about it.”

They rode in silence after that, mile after mile ticking off on the speedometer. Billy had said what he wanted to say and neither had anything else worth mentioning, certainly nothing that was worth shouting over the noise of the engine.

Eventually, the girl looked bored. “Come on then, mate,” she said. “You got a present for me?”

“You what?”

“I’m not here for the good of my health, you know. How’s a girl supposed to eat? I could be very nice to you.”

“I’m not after any of that.”

“What you mean? You don’t like me?”

“I just want to talk.”

“Talking ain’t going to pay my bleeding rent, is it?”

“I’m giving you a lift…”

“Bloody hell, mate, don’t talk silly. Give me half a dollar.”

They were approaching London, the lights of the city glowing beyond the rim of the North Circular. A filling station was on the road ahead. Billy changed down through the gears and swung into the forecourt. He reached into his pocket and took out a handful of loose coins: half a crown, a florin and six-pennorth worth of coppers. “Here you go,” he said, giving the coins to the girl. “Out you get.”